Something Like Redemption (Something Like Normal #2) (10 page)

So, he wants to play dirty? So can I.

Quinn offers to pay for the door charge, but I wave him off and pay my eight dollars. I confidently march in while he lags behind, attempting to keep up with me as he puts the change into his back pocket. But I’m on a mission.

Pushing through the doors, a hundred sets of eyes fall onto me and I smile, as this is going to be a lot easier than I thought. I slip off my sweater, as I only have a black tank on underneath, and the eyes of every male in the room follow the movement.

Back in L.A., I had to learn how to flirt my way out of some sticky situations, and I got pretty good at it. Men usually only think with one head, and it’s not the one on their shoulders.

This time is no exception.

“Put your sweater back on,” Quinn whispers into my ear, protectively wrapping an arm around my shoulders.

But I shrug him off and saunter toward the bar. “Put
your
sweater back on,” I throw back at him over my shoulder with a grin, taking a seat at the bar.

The venue is a quaint little spot with a simple layout. The bar is to the right, and the toilets are behind the stage, which sits to the back of the room with a dance floor close by. There are red leather loveseats scattered around at random, and a few tables and barstools are placed around the dance floor. The red decor, contrasted with the black walls, kind of reminds me of a brothel. The leery guy next to me, who just looked down my top, just adds to the brothel vibe.

“Can I get you a drink?” he murmurs, leaning in so close I almost smash foreheads with him.

This guy is about twenty years older than me, and by the bags under his eyes, I’d say he’s had a rough night.

Just as I’m about to tell him to save his money and buy himself some breath mints, Quinn fills in the tiny space between us, his huge frame dwarfing my tiny one.

“She doesn’t want a drink. Now move,” he says with confidence, gesturing with his head for the guy to give up his seat.

The guy stands quickly, as Quinn has made it crystal clear he can either leave voluntarily, or Quinn will remove him. I’m sure there will be nothing voluntary if that happens.

“You’ve proven your point,” Quinn says, straddling the seat near me, while I flag down the male bartender with a killer mohawk.

“What point?” I ask sweetly, batting my eyelashes at him.

The bartender, who is an attractive looking guy with a blue mohawk and a face full of piercings, looks my way, flashing me a dazzling smile. “What can I get ya, pretty lady?” he asks with a long drawl.

The annoyance radiating off Quinn is almost suffocating, and I can’t help but chuckle. “I’ll have a—” I rear up to look over his huge mohawk at the drink menu board. “Slippery Nipple.” I smirk, holding back my laugh when I hear Quinn huff near me.

“No, she’ll have a Coke,” Quinn says, cutting me off quickly.

The bartender looks from me to Quinn, and then back to me with a sizzling smile.

“Slippery Nipple, thanks,” I say, ignoring Quinn, and the bartender gives me a wink before turning around to make my drink.

“Red, I’m warning you,” he says into my ear with caution.

“Warning me? What exactly are you warning me about?” I reply, brushing my hair over one shoulder.

He edges closer to me and I take a deep breath, as his close proximity has me salivating. “You know what you’re doing.”

“And what would that be?” I ask, breathlessly.

“Driving me crazy,” he confesses, nipping my earlobe sharply.

I jolt at the sensation and the bartender returns, sliding my drink toward me.

“That’ll be ten dollars, please,” Mohawk says, watching Quinn and I curiously.

As I reach for my money, Quinn smacks a twenty on the bar.

“Here’s a tip,” Quinn spits, and the bartender reaches for it happily.

But Quinn slaps his hand over the bill. “You get one of the other bartenders to serve her from now on,” and he removes his hand.

Mohawk nods uneasily, realizing Quinn’s ‘tip’ was not in the form of money, and he scampers off, serving a patron at the other end of the bar.

“Real smooth,” I say, raising the rim of the glass to my lips and tossing it back quickly.

“I wasn’t trying to be smooth,” Quinn says with a shrug.

As I lick my sticky fingers—the liqueur trickled over the sides of the shot glass—Quinn grabs a hold of my seat and spins it so I’m facing him. I have about a second to register what he’s doing before he smashes his lips to mine, kissing me with such intensity I nearly slip off my seat.

“Now, that’s smooth,” he says, pulling away with a smirk.

He looks calm and collected, while I’m all crazy-eyed and panting noisily. Damn him for beating me at my own game.

The lights suddenly dim, and the crowd cheers as the first member of Wild Child takes his position behind the drums. The guitarist and keyboardist follow not long after. I’m surprised, because they are clones of the original band members of The Doors. I can’t help but wonder what the sexy Jim Morrison will look like.

I don’t have to wait too long, because as soon as ‘Jim’ comes out, the girls go wild.

The guy, who is no older than twenty-one, takes his spot behind the microphone, wearing the infamous leather pants, boots, and white shirt, which falls open, revealing a nicely defined chest. His hair is tousled and long, and my God, if I didn’t know better, I’d say Jim Morrison lives.

The girls in the venue rush to the front, pushing and shoving to get a prime spot for a performance, which will, no doubt, get a lot of men in here laid.

Now
I know why there are so many men here.

Jim starts off with “Alabama Song,” and the girls bop away, hands above their heads, dancing to the catchy tune of the keyboard. This happens for the majority of the show and I must admit, I am a little starstruck, as he is really good. Voice, stage moves, everything is down to a tee to the real Jim Morrison, who I have a little crush on.

“L.A. Woman” ends, and Jim laughs when a thong gets thrown onto the stage. I really hope whoever threw it up there has another pair.

“We’re going to slow it down a bit,” he says, running his fingers up and down the microphone stand seductively.

“The Crystal Ship” begins, and as Jim’s smooth voice lulls me into a hypnotic state, I close my eyes and get lost in the music.

“Dance with me,” Quinn whispers into my ear.

My eyes snap open and I turn to look at him, stunned. No one has ever asked me to dance before. And because of that, I don’t know how.

“I don’t… I…” I stutter, lowering my eyes.

But Quinn reaches for my hand, leading me to the wooden dance floor where many bodies are swaying slowly, and some, a little perversely.

As we reach a small spot, I look from side to side, attempting to subtly watch others and replicate their movements. Quinn encircles my waist with his arms, drawing me into him and I instantly relax.

“Wrap your arms around my neck,” he says into my ear hoarsely, and the heat of his hands on my waist scorches my skin raw.

Nervously, I raise my arms, enclosing his neck in a tight grip. Biting my lip, I feel beyond stupid just standing there, not knowing what to do. But as Quinn leisurely begins swaying, his eyes focused on mine, I mimic his movements, shuffling from foot to foot, and thankfully, I don’t feel too uncoordinated.

I lower my eyes to ensure I’m not stepping on his feet, but Quinn dips his face to meet mine.

“I’ll lead you, Red. Just trust me,” he says, his emerald eyes shining under the dim lights.

I know his words have nothing to do with what we’re doing on the dance floor, but rather, where we’re headed, and I don’t question it.

I give him a small smile and rest my head against his chest, listening to the hypnotic voice of Jim Morrison.

But what’s more hypnotic is the steady rhythm of Quinn’s heart, which is beating wildly in sync with mine.

Chapter 10

Lost

The next morning over breakfast, Quinn suggests we call Tabitha at the diner, but I’m not really listening to him.

All I can think about is the way we danced last night through the rest of Wild Child’s set. Being in his arms that way, snuggling into him as he sung softly into my ear, is something I will never forget.

It still gives me goosebumps just thinking about it.

Who knew I liked dancing? Although, I have a feeling I only really enjoyed it because I was wrapped up in Quinn’s embrace, feeling safe, and enfolded in his smell.

“Red? Do you want me to do it?” he asks as he stands outside the glass phone box I’m squished into, looking at me with worried eyes.

“Huh? Do what?” I ask, totally oblivious to what’s going on.

“Call Tabitha,” he explains with a smirk.

“Oh right,” I say, clearing my throat and shaking my head.

Focus, Mia.

“No, I’m good,” I reply, slipping my hood over my head, wanting to hide away from reality.

Slipping a few quarters in, I dial Bobby Joe’s and hold my breath. On the third ring, Tabitha answers, and the sound of her voice immediately causes my eyes to water.

“Abi, it’s me,” I stupidly whisper, seeing as no one is around.

“Mia?” she gasps softly.

“Yeah, it’s me. How are you? How’s Tristan?” I reply.

“What happened to your phone? I’ve been trying to call you,” she whispers, and I can hear the background noise fade as she takes the cordless phone out back.

“We had to get rid of it. Someone claiming to be you sent us a message asking where we were.”

She gasps. “It wasn’t me.”

“I know, Abi. How’s Tristan?” I ask again, looking at Quinn, who is sucking on his lip ring, listening closely.

“He’s better. He’s still in the hospital. He’ll be there for another week for observation. Mia, the police have been around here asking questions.”

“I’m sorry that you’re involved in all my mess.” I sigh sadly.

“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve got my dad working on your case.”

“What?” I question loudly, which has Quinn stepping forward, raising an inquisitive brow. I shake my head at him and continue to listen to Abi.

“My dad isn’t like my mom, that’s why they divorced. He’s kind, unlike her, and I trust him. He’s a powerful man with connections, and he’s trying his best to pull some strings to get the police off your tail.”

“How’s he doing that?” I ask, nervously scratching at a sticker on the glass, as Abi has never discussed her father in great detail before.

“Don’t be mad,” she says. “But I told him about you, and he’s hired a private investigator to look into everything.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, looking at Quinn anxiously.

“It means he’s trying to clear your name, and pin everything onto your dad and Phil.”

“You know about my dad. Phil… Me?” I add, my stomach dropping.

“I know everything, Mia,” she confesses softly.

Oh my God, she now knows what I did. And she now also knows who I really am.

When Quinn and I took off, Tabitha only knew a sliver of my past. But now… now she knows it all.

“And you still want to help me?” I ask incredulously, tears stinging my eyes.

“More than ever,” she replies. A tear slips down my cheek.

Quinn looks like he’s about ready to explode, and takes a step toward me. I raise my hand, indicating I’m okay.

“Phil covered his tracks,” she says, brushing off the fact she knows about my tainted past.

“I know,” I sadly add, wiping away my tears.

“But my dad has hired the best, and they’re working around the clock to put a case together to prove to the police that you’re innocent. When that happens, hopefully the police will listen, and you guys won’t be wanted for murder.”

“So they’re pegging the murder on Quinn and me?” I ask, making eye contact with Quinn, as this proves that we are
actually
wanted for murder.

We both believed there may be a slim chance that we were only wanted for questioning. But with Brad’s dad on the case, there is no such thing as innocent until proven guilty.

“Yes. Sheriff Davidson won’t let it go. He’s been coming here almost every day looking for you. Tristan is under watch at the hospital, too.”

“What? Why?” I shout, instantly feeling a wave of protection at the mere mention of Tristan’s name.

“Because they think Quinn will make contact with him.”

“Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing my aching forehead.

Quinn has had enough and tries to squeeze into the booth, but I put my arm up, needing some space before I suffocate.

“The sheriff has a personal vendetta against you. What happened?” Tabitha asks.

I don’t want to tell Abi what happened, but she’s sticking her neck out for me, so she needs to know the truth.

“I had a fight with Brad on the night that he drugged you. I went after him, pulled a knife, and threatened him. Things got ugly, and he tried to—” I look at Quinn, whose jaw is clenching as if reliving the memory.

“He attacked me, and Quinn saved me. But not before Quinn beat him nearly to death.” And then I take a breath.

There is silence on the other end, and if not for the clanging of pots and pans, I’d say Abi has hung up.

“Abi?” I ask. “Are you still there?”

“Yeah,” she finally croaks. “You did that for me, Mia? You put yourself in jeopardy for me.”

“Of course I did, you’re my best friend,” I reply like it’s a no brainer.

“Oh God… this is my fault,” she gasps as I hear her plonk onto a squeaky chair.

“No! None of this is your fault,” I say passionately.” Don’t you ever say that, okay?”

“Okay.” She sniffs loudly. “Thank you, Mia. What you did for me—”

“Abi, don’t mention it. I better go. I’m not sure if this line is tapped.”

“Okay.” She sniffles into the phone. “Just keep running, okay? Just until my dad comes up with a plan. Don’t go to the police, as Sheriff Davidson has an APB on you and Quinn, and issued it through most counties.”